It'd Been a Year
by Hazel Kingsleigh
Summary: "Sherlock, he tried to kill himself. You have to tell him you're alive."


**AN: Rated K+ for drug abuse, suicide, and language. **

"Sherlock,he tried to kill himself. You have to tell him you're alive."

It'd been a year. "You'll be fine," they'd say, after trying to comfort him. "It's okay," they'd say. "You'll get over it," they'd add, cautiously patting his shoulder.

He didn't. It'd been a year, and frankly, it didn't seem like he'd ever move on. His best friend had_died_. After the army, after being shot and sent home, John felt as though something was missing. What, he didn't know. He didn't know what until he'd found Sherlock. Or maybe he hadn't even known until now. Now that he was gone. The one thing filling the gap he felt in his heart, however, had left. And there was no way to get it back.

He decided how he would do it. The pain didn't exactly matter. The cabinets were filled with pills. John never bothered to ask why Sherlock kept an overabundance of medical pills, obviously not over-the-counter drugs, in his flat, but at the moment, he hardly cared.

Maybe he could make it look like he'd drowned. If he just filled up the bath, took enough pills to make himself pass out, got in, bare to the flesh, and fell asleep, there was a chance his head would slip under. Even if it didn't, he'd probably die of an overdose. And to tell the truth, John didn't really mind which one.

One last time, John staggered into Sherlock's bedroom. The bed, perfectly made, but papers cluttered the floor, obviously research. He glanced at the bed again, remembering the nights he'd spent, drinking wine and crying until he couldn't any longer. Until tears stopped coming and he was simply hyperventilating. He'd stopped after a week. It had simply become too much to take.

And that was it. He was finished. Reaching out, he stroked the soft comforter, too hysterical to acknowledge that it still smelled of him. Still smelled like Sherlock. A mixture of out-dated cologne, 'Ocean Blue' shampoo, and English tea.

John felt his phone vibrate through the material of his trousers. It was Lestrade. Probably semi-important, but John's eyes just barely glazed over the text.

There was one last thing he needed to do.

His fingers shook wildly, but with enough effort, John managed to dial Lestrade's phone number.

"Gr-Greg. Please answer. Please pick up your pho—"

"John? John, what is i-" John cut him off. "John, listen, calm down. Calm down. What's wrong? What is it? What can I do?"

"I'm going to—"

He stopped talking.

"John? John?"

The mobile slipped out of his hand and dropped carelessly to the floor.

"I'm sorry," was all he murmured before heading out the door to the bath. Lestrade's voice could be heard, very faintly, shouting John's name repeatedly.

Then he gave up.

"_**Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." John glared at him, disgust in his eyes. "No. Friends protect people."**_

"Friends protect people," John choked out. He took the pills slowly, one at a time, as he ran the bath. "Friends protect people," he repeated. _Fifth pill, sixth pill, seventh pill. _A deadly game, that's all it was. It was a game. And he was losing it. _Fifteenth. Sixteenth. Seventeenth. The rest of the bottle. _

"_**That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" Sherlock's voice was the same as usual, slightly short of monotone, deep, but it worried him. It worried John. "L-leave a note? When?"**_

A napkin. He needed a napkin. And a pen. John rampaged through the bathroom. There was nothing to write on, nothing at all. The sharpie would just have to work on the wall.

His body hit the floor before he could etch a single word.

The last thing he heard were sirens.

"John."

A deep voice startled John. Feeling regained in his body as he slowly began to regain consciousness. His eyes opened, slowly, then all at once.

"No."

Weak laughter escaped his lips. Cold, hysterical, weak laughter.

"That's it. I'm dead. It worked."

"John."

"Sherlock."

"John. You're not dead."

He hardly reacted. "I'm sorry. I'm not what?"

Sherlock blinked heavily. "You're not dead, John. You've been in a coma for a week. Lestrade found you in time. The ambulance brought you here. Lestr-Lestrade contacted Mycroft. I came as soon as I found out. I can't believe you—"

He stopped.

"H-how are you even here?"

Sighing, Sherlock closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, then let it out, slowly and shakily. "I never died, John," he finally said.

"You bastard."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're back. After _faking your _death and want me to just forgive you? Forgive you for all the suffering you caused for me? For everyone? Forgive you for _staying hidden long enough for me to attempt suicide_?" Tears began to leak from John's eyes. "You _bastard_!"

Sherlock's lips pressed together tightly. "I'm sorry John. You had to think I was dead. They had assassins prepared to kill you if I stayed alive."

"But you are alive," John pointed out.

"I am well aware of that."

"Why aren't I dead?"

"Because they think I'm dead, imbecile, must I explain _everything_ to you people?"

They're both silent.

"I missed you," Sherlock said suddenly.

John is surprised. Sherlock, showing emotion? This "highly functioning sociopath" was showing emotion to another living, breathing human? Very unlikely.

"I-I missed you too," John murmured.

They look into each other's eyes. Maybe that's why they thought the same. Or maybe it was just hope. Hope that made them think it.

_Everything would be okay. _


End file.
